


reach out (for her healing hands)

by Skyepilot



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Cooking, Coulson getting turned on by Daisy's powers, Coulson using Daisy's stuff, F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Friends to Lovers, Guilt, Love Confessions, Lust, Sexual Humor, Shaving, Silly, Skye | Daisy Johnson's Superpowers, Teasing, objectifying Phil Coulson, sexual innuendo, theraputic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-24 14:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skyepilot/pseuds/Skyepilot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Skoulson RomFest 2k16 REDUX - DAY 3 · 20 July - feeding Coulson, survivor(s)</p><p>Daisy rescues Coulson to her safehouse and they talk and make out over guilt feelings.  Fluffy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	reach out (for her healing hands)

“Let me see.”

He gives her a hard stare, as she kneels down next to the chair, and touches his legs through his jeans.

After all, she’s the one who did this to him.

She _should_ have to see it.

Whatever he’s on the fence about, he shoves it down, and bends over and starts rolling the denim up his leg.

They don’t have his meds, there wasn’t any time, and she can tell he’s in pain.

“I can do it,” she tells him, taking over as he moves his hands out of the way. “Just relax.”

He does what he’s told, and eases back into the chair.  She can feel the tension building up in him, when that’s the last thing she wants.

There’s a scar left on his leg, where the bone had pushed through, and she can hardly believe that she could ever do something like this to him.

But she did.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he tells her.

It must be showing on her face. 

She puts her fingers against the spot and then moves her hand along his leg, feeling the hairs brushing along her hand.

His hands grip into the arm rests of the chair, as she concentrates, using her powers on him.

All this time she’s had alone has allowed her to focus in a lot of ways.  She’s learned to use her powers for nice things, like this, too.

“It’s called vibrational healing,” she tells him. “I read up on it a lot and then started experimenting.”

“So you’ve done this before?” he asks, the pitch in his voice sounding higher than before.

“Sure,” she says with a small smile. “It’s _very_ relaxing.”

She laughs a little as his eyes widen.  He’s always been uncomfortable at her innuendos.

“I’m sure it is,” he says, grousing, as he swallows and leans forward to watch her.

“It’s really good for inflammation,” she says, putting her other hand on him as well. “When all the blood rushes to one area-“

“Okay, got it,” he interrupts, letting out a breath and sitting back again, giving up.

“It’s just science,” she teases.

“Thank you, Doctor Johnson,” he says, sounding quiet.  But also, grateful.

He lets go of the arm rests, eventually, and lets his arms fall to the side, and she hears him breathing evenly when she realizes that he’s fallen asleep.

It’s been a long day, and he’s here because the Watchdogs were targeting him, to try and get to her.

It worked.  Despite the fact that she thought leaving would prevent this.

She stands up and looks down at him sprawled out in the chair.

He seems different.  There’s something about him that looks like it’s been on the edge.

Could just be that she’s not used to seeing him without a shave.  And these clothes, not very him.

She bends a knuckle and then slides it along his chin, as the movement tickles him in his rest.

“Hairy Phil,” she says aloud, with a sigh. “What have you been doing with yourself?” 

Using her powers all day has made her hungry.  She touches his shoulder for a moment, then decides to change into a t-shirt and some sweats, and make them something to eat.

 

#

When she’s pulling the thing she made out of the oven, she peeks around the corner and notices the chair is empty.

“Coulson?”

She sets the pan down on the stove, along with the oven mitt, and then pads around the corner to find him.

The bathroom door is open with the light on, and she can hear movement inside, feel the heat from the steam of the shower.

“Everything okay?” she asks, tapping a knuckle against the door.

“Yeah,” he answers, pulling it open. “I’ve borrowed some of your things, I hope you don’t mind.”

He’s wearing a towel and has her shaving stuff out on the counter, rubbing her pink-tinted, berry scented shaving cream across his chin.

“That’s fine.” She leans against the door jamb, completely distracted by the fact this is the most she’s ever seen of him since the day they met, hidden under suits or jeans and jackets.

Not that she’s been curious, but, okay, she’s been curious.

He clears his throat when her eyes land on the scar over his heart, and she blinks up at him again.

“Pink looks good on you,” she says.  “Cute.”

His eyes narrow at her a little, then he picks up the razor and starts to draw it across his face, grimacing a little and turning on the sink to tap it into the water.

“I’ll be out in a minute?”  He raises an eyebrow at her, with a smug little expression, as she watches him through the mirror.

“Are you hungry?” She runs her hand over the back of her neck, trying not to blush. “I made a thing.”

“Sounds great,” he nods, as she points towards where the kitchen would be, if the wall wasn’t there, and she wasn’t noticing those little indents on his hips.

“I’ll just, go,” she says, pivoting with her finger still in the air.

She gets back to the kitchen and starts chewing on her lower lip as she takes out a knife to slice the thing she made into little squares.

I mean, she always liked that he was a nice man.  And his kind eyes, and how careful he can be.  Dedicated, and even disarmingly tender at times.

He’s also…kind of hot?

Taking out a couple of paper plates from the cabinet, she spoons the food onto them, and sets them at the edge of the counter where the stools are.

It’s just a small efficiency, but it’s secure and it has essentials.  Sort of a halfway house where she’s helped people like her along the way before they get to somewhere more permanent.

It’s not very homey, though, and they’re eating with plastic forks and all she has is orange juice in some wax paper dixie cups.

“Hey,” he turns up in front of her, toweling his hair off, still damp from the shower, his face smooth and soft from the shave. “What did you make?”

“This,” she says.  Pushing the plate right in front of him. “I hope you like it.”

He turns the plate along the counter with his fingers, looking at it. “It looks like tortilla española.”

“A what?” she asks, then shakes her head. “No. It’s not fancy, it’s just made up.”

“It looks great,” he tells her, smiling, and picks up the fork, as he puts the towel around his neck, then eases onto the stool.

She puts the cups onto the counter and then sits down next to him, as they eat in silence.

“How is your leg?” she says, after a moment, staring up at his mussed hair.

“Better,” he tells her, chewing, then swallowing. “I feel…better.”

And now, it’s her turn to feel scrutinized, as his eyes search over her face, resting for a moment on her mouth, before locking onto hers again.

“I thought if I left, you wouldn’t get hurt,” she stammers. “Because of me.”

He looks down at the plate, like he was unprepared for the conversation to turn to this so quickly.

“I’m sorry you had to run.  I just wish I could’ve done more. To protect you.”

She doesn’t really need protecting.  This is just who she is now, but she knows how well he gets along with guilt.

“Hey, what if I was meant to protect you?” she asks, leaning her head down a little to get him to look at her.

His eyes dart up to hers and hold on for a long time, as they both sit up straighter.

“This is good,” he says, lifting the fork again, and poking it into the food. “Tastes like frittata.”

She lifts her juice and rolls her eyes at him.

 

#

“Coulson, it’s okay,” she tells him, motioning with her hand, for him to give it over.

He sighs, like she is asking the world, and then shifts on the couch and bends one knee and then extends his leg out as she runs her hand along it and sets it on her lap.

They’re just sitting on the tiny couch, watching a movie on her laptop on the coffee table.  Actually, they tried to talk strategy, but then she thought that this was too nice. The kind of thing that never happens to them.

“That’s the problem,” he said to her, as the corner of his mouth turned up. “It’s too nice.”

She doesn’t remember him being so cynical, she thought that was _her_ territory these days.  And he tenses up again, as she uses her powers.

“What’s wrong, are you getting all hot and bothered?” she teases.

“Actually? Yes,” he tells her, his voice sounding tense.

Her hands freeze on top of his leg.

“Wow, if I’d know you were that easy-“ she deadpans, trying to counter the seriousness in his tone.

“You were that easy,” he interrupts. “All they had to do was put me in the crosshairs.  Do you really feel that guilty?”

“ _Me_?” she asks, moving his leg off of her.  “You’re one to talk.  Why have you been chasing after me?”

He frowns at her, now that it’s turned back around on him.

“Guilt,” she says, drawing her leg under her to shift towards him. “All over your face.  Because I get it. I really do, Phil.”

It’s worrying, his expression, and she’s afraid they’ve both been through so much, that’s she’s not being careful enough.

“I’m in love with you,” he blurts out. “And I know that I shouldn’t be, but I am.”

“And you feel _guilty_ for that?” she asks, sounding irritated, because she kind of is.

“Yes,” he admits, looking surprised when she pushes him back against the arm of the sofa by his shoulders. “You’re lonely, Daisy,” he warns her, trying to sound reasonable, even though his hands are on her waist.

“Anything else?” she asks hovering over him. “Because I want something nice, for once.  And you’re ruining it.”

“I’m sorry.” He mutters it quietly, and she swears his eyes flutter slightly, before they close and she meets him somewhere in the middle as they kiss.

She keeps expecting it to end, but it doesn’t.  Every time she feels like he’s about to pull away, he draws her back in, like he’s been thinking about doing this for a long time, a lot of different ways.

This thing between them, she’s never been able to name exactly what it was, only how it made her feel, and how badly she wanted to believe what Hive told her, that it was an illusion that she could never have.

When she opens up his mouth, it starts to get heated, she feels her skin warming all over, and his hands slide down past her hips to grab at her and press his body up against hers.

“Terrible,” she says, pulling away, her chest rising and falling against his, looking at his reddened mouth. “You should feel _so_ guilty.”

He raises his eyebrows at the lecture, then blinks. “Where’s the bed?”

“We’re sitting on it,” she laughs, and ducks her face against his shoulder at his disappointed expression.

“Of course we are,” he smirks, as she works her arms around his middle, and lets him hold her.

 “It seems like it’s been forever, since I’ve felt home.”

His eyes get even bigger, and he looks overwhelmed for a moment. “I meant that in a nice way,” she adds, turning her face up towards him. “That you feel like home.”

“I do know that feeling,” he replies, brushing his fingers along her cheek, then through the ends of her shorter hair. 

She snuggles against him as she feels his lips press to her forehead, and slips her hand underneath his t-shirt, touching the soft trail of hair across his stomach, and draw her finger against the little dip in his hip where the muscles and bones meet.

“The couch folds out.”

“Okay,” he says immediately, helping her up off him.                                                                                 

 

 

 


End file.
